God Loves, Man Kills
by She-Jedi-Siona
Summary: Set in X2. We know that Nightcrawler was aware of his attack on the White House...but what was he THINKING? NC's point of view.


God Loves, Man Kills:  
  
A/N: Yes, it IS named after the all-time famous X-Men novella, "God Loves, Man Kills" by the talented Chris Claremont, my idol. That, and I think we all know that X2 is lightly based on the best-seller. I felt that is was rather appropriate. Also, a lot of this refers to the novelization of X2,  
also by Chris Claremont. Great man, that old fart. ^_^  
  
*****  
  
I don't understand how this is happening. My legs move by their own accord. My arms lash out at people, men and women in dark uniforms, hurting them. I'm running, jumping, kicking, punching, flipping, harming people. Tourists scream in terror, children begin to cry as I run by, continuing on this still unclear mission. Everything is so foggy, I can't see through it all. All the sounds are vague, only just audible, and they are all horrible.  
  
None of this makes any sense.  
  
I can't stop myself; this whole thing has been warped into a bad dream, and I just can't wake up. I want to scream for help, but all my mouth does is sneer and growl. I want to run away from this terrifying place of white, but my feet only carry further and further into it. I want to close my eyes, but they only stare ahead, to targets, to victims. All I can do is scream in my own head, crying, praying, begging for a quick death. Anything, ANYTHING, would be better than this kind of torment.  
  
An office shaped like an oval. The famous Oval Office, I presume. I studied a little about the United States of America before coming here to respond to an audition from the Ringling Bros. Agents everywhere, pistols and sniper rifles aiming straight at my heart and my head, bullets blasting my ears as they exploded out of their housings and through the air, 2,000 miles an hour at me.  
  
They never hit.  
  
I teleport, so fast, so expertly, that I'm amazed by my own abilities. I had always known of my special powers, but I had never know, or perhaps, had not wished to know, that they made me the perfect assailant, making the world's best men and women into mince meat.  
  
In next to no time, everyone in the room was done. Except one man. I recognized him almost immediately: George McKenna. President of the United States.  
  
I leap clear across the office, slamming the older man into his hardwood desk. I have never seen the terror I saw in McKenna's eyes, but I saw a determination there as well; this was a man ready to die with his boots on.  
  
The knife is in my hand; I don't know how it got there, but it's there nonetheless. A scarlet banner wove around its leather hilt, soft in my hand. I raise it high, and I begin to scream. Not verbally, I couldn't remember how to do that, but in my mind. I sobbed like a child, praying to the Lord Almighty for aid, for mercy.  
  
The gunshot made McKenna jump. It had a different effect on me. The pain searing through my shoulder made me cry out and I dropped the knife. I had dropped the knife, not the other, demonic self. I blinked, confused, in pain, and looked down at the frightened man under me.  
  
I teleport.  
  
Willingly.  
  
I usually didn't transport myself out of my range of sight, for fear of ending up in the middle of a wall or being speared by a tree branch, but I'm too panicked to even begin to think of my actions, or their consequences. My teleportation lands my outside the White House, in the midst of some bushes, mercifully hidden from the sight of the dozens of bodyguards and gunmen rushing all over the place.  
  
I gaze down at my hands. These hands.they had HURT people, possibly even KILLED people. I couldn't stop the racking sob that rose up in my throat. God Almighty, what was happening to me? I suddenly didn't want to look at myself; the first time I had ever has such a thought. None of this was making any sense.  
  
Home.I needed to go home, to my sanctuary.  
  
As fast as I could teleport myself, I fled the scene of the crime, my crime. All the way, I cried shamelessly. What was going on? I thought of the people I loved most, back in Germany; Margali, Amanda, so many others.what would they think of me now? Would they hate me for what I had done? Fear me? Pity me? The last one seemed the worse. But one thing was quite evident now:  
  
I couldn't return to them.  
  
I have never loved the abandoned St. Peter's Church like I did now. The mere sight of it made me collapse to my knees and pray. Every step up the stairs (I was too exhausted to teleport) seems to rip the energy from my body. How I made it to my bed, I will never know.  
  
My arm still bled, staining the white jacket. That was the first time I noticed the coat. I had never seen the likes of it, nor these new pants, or shoes. The gore of Secret Service agents is splattered on all of them. With a cry of disgust and horror, I rip them off and flung them across the room. They crumple against the wood, just under my large crucifix. There they lay, glaring at me with invisible, accusing eyes.  
  
I can't take it anymore. No matter how much I try to hold it back, I can't contain the sobs racking me now. The tears stain my bedspread and floor, and the sound of my howling fills the entire church. With shaking hands, I search for my rosary, the one thing left that seems to give me any comfort in this world. The sight of its scarlet beads and silver cross is so very consoling.  
  
I am still shaking, making the beads in my hands clatter. The events of this day are so very confusing, and when I try to think of how I came to be at the White House, I can't remember anything. All that comes to mind is a man.a man in glasses.and I remember fear.  
  
The memories make my head ache with a dull pain and I shake it away.  
  
A large slamming noise can be heard, from down below; someone has forced the doors open! No doubt it is the officials. But I didn't mean to hurt anyone!  
  
Quickly getting dressed, I silently clamber down to where I can see the entire church floor without being spotted.  
  
There, in the middle of the rubble I had just begun to clean up, stand two women; one a small white woman with flaming red hair, the other a tall and exotic black woman, her white hair providing a stark contrast to her chocolate-colored skin. Both wear jackets of great length, but I can see dark, leather uniforms underneath. I cannot help but wonder if all American women wear them. Such weird people, these Amerikans.  
  
Now.to get to business.  
  
"Gehen sie Raus!" I howl into the gloom before teleporting away. Both women startle, searching for me. Despite myself, I smile at their shock. "Ich bin ein Bote des Teufels!"  
  
"He's a teleporter," I hear the red-haired woman say. "Must be why the professor had a hard time locating him."  
  
"Will it be any easier for us to catch him?" her companion asks, eyes still looking for my presence.  
  
"Not a problem."  
  
"Ich bin die ausgeburt des Bösen!" I call, confused as to why they haven't run shrieking in terror like everyone else has. "Gehen sie Raus!"  
  
"Are you bored yet?" the red-head asks the other.  
  
"Totally."  
  
By pure chance, I believe, the black woman looks almost straight up at me. I withdraw into the shadows when she shouts, "You wanna come down?"  
  
When I give them no answer, the red-head shrugs. The black woman looks to her for half a moment, then turns sharply to me. Even from high above, I can see that her eyes have turned from a cool sky-blue to a milky white, like a storm cloud before it erupts with violence upon the Earth.  
  
A flash! Before I can even react, the cracking sound of thunder and a single blast of lightening destroys my post. I plummet like a rock, falling straight to the floor, screaming in terror and pain.  
  
Just as suddenly, I stop, right in midair. Terrified out of my wits, I shake and look around to discover what could possibly be controlling me. The two women walk up with more pride and grace than I can imagine.  
  
"You got him?"  
  
"He's not going anywhere." The red-head makes a small gesture with her hand and I begin to slowly spin around to face them.  
  
"Please, don't kill me!" I plead, holding out my hands to show I'm unarmed. "I didn't mean to harm anyone!"  
  
"Oh, I wonder where people got that impression," remarks the white-haired woman, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "What's your name?"  
  
"Kurt.Kurt Wagner."  
  
A pause from the women. They look at each other, as if they are speaking, but I can hear nothing. The white-haired woman shrugs again, and I'm suddenly released. I drop to the balls of my large feet, instantly poised to flee. But something about these two intrigues me, and I stay.  
  
The red-head gives me a kind and gentle smile, extending one gloved hand. I shrink away at first, having met too many people who were just pretending to be kindly to extort me. But, once again, something deep inside tells me that maybe these women are different than the others.  
  
I take her hand in my own.  
  
"I'm Jean Grey. I'm here to help." 


End file.
